The Sweet Taste of Victory...and Spiced Pumpkin

After my "long" day of seminars (four hours of two back-to-back classes) I decided to take my usual route home: walking via Covent Garden.

Today at long last, the slight detour paid off (though yesterday's small haul of Lay's barbecue crisps and Oreos wasn't bad either): I now have my canned pumpkin puree. The last part of my chronicle has ended and the proverbial Holy Grail as been found. Anything else - condensed milk, allspice, vegetable oil - is a peripheral concern and easily obtained at Morrison's or Waitrose.

Stokley pumpkin (citrouille since it's Canadian), I salute you for making my usual autumnal confections possible.

oh you lovely muffins...here I come...

hello beautiful...my piece de resistance

(hopefully with homemade whipped cream as well)

The Best Cure is More of What Made You Sick

The shadows have grown long and the sunlight now streaming through the leaves and into the bedroom window has softened with the waning day. Bags and boxes and clothes are strewn across the floor with a sense of neglect and abandon. The bed is unmade; covered in papers and assorted odds and ends of clothing that managed to migrate from the floor or on top of the suitcases. I am sitting on a cheap IKEA stool cushioned by a cheap IKEA pillow, with another - even cheaper - IKEA stool holding my papers and box full of pens, hi-lighters, and Post-Its. Such is my life.

I can now say that I actually feel as if I'm back in school. The past 5 hours have actually been spent attempting, and sometimes even completing research. I've read articles on JSTOR, Project MUSE, the websites for the Tate Britain, V&A, and NPG, and even - true to my undergraduate form - Wikipedia. There's something satisfying in realising after 2 highly intimidating seminar sessions that perhaps I'm not as hopeless as I thought.

After hours of reading on everything from Godfrey Kneller to mezzotints to Banyans and writing copious notes on such, you'd think I'd unwind by watching mindless TV, right? Not so. Only I could somehow find solace from hours of reading and writing by doing even more reading and writing! What sort of reading and writing? Oh, of course only the mindless sort.

Reading: the latest Dan Brown novel which is making the rounds through all of my flatmates like a communicable disease during fraternity pledging.

Writing: my blog. A beautiful exercise in being simultaneously informative and self-centred.

Perhaps, though, as a special treat I'll browbeat teh interwebs into cooperating long enough to let me enjoy the latest episode of Private Practise before my back permanently sinks into a hunched-over position signalling my regression from life as a fresh-air-breathing, Regent's-Park-running Human Being to life as a bleary-eyed, indoor-dwelling, internet-database-researching hermit, otherwise known as a Graduate Student. Or perhaps, after months of prolonged exposure and close contact, I'll become fused to my laptop in a creepy sort of symbiosis only previously seen in Disney's latest epic fail, Pirates of the Caribbean III: At World's End. Or maybe it's more like the Borg in Star Trek...I'm not sure.

yeargh...no onomotopoeia is sufficient to convey

such thorough disgust.

At least I have 2 pages of nicely colour-coded notes to show for my efforts. And no carbuncles yet...

...And I Even Had Pearls and a Shirtwaist Dress!

I have officially discovered something about myself: June Cleaver is my alter ego. Who knew?

I went in early to church today in order to conduct the choir. A surprisingly successful (surprising because of my lack of prep work, *not* the calibre of the choir!) rehearsal out of the way, it was then time for the meeting block, some post-church chatting, and then off home for dinner and a viewing of "The Best Two Years."

Sebastian and I debated (read: sat and wondered and felt stumped) about how to dress up our intended menu of (essentially) beans on toast. There were sausages begging to be used up before they went off and started mooing like the hides and flesh in the Odyssey. Joining the mute chorus of pleas to be eaten was a baguette from the other day inching its way slowly towards staleness and - if left too long unattended - fossilisation. Luckily, eerily mooing animal flesh and fossilised French bread were still only distantly looming threats which tonight's dinner put to paid.

In the midst of hopelessly bandying about ideas in the Tube station on the way home, we decided that some Boston Baked Beans could be improvised on the side of sausages and baguette - which were to be done up as posh hot dogs, really. This settled on, I set to in the kitchen once we got to the house and as Sebastian was on the phone, the idea came to me: there should be gravy to go with the sausages!

My flash of inspiration having struck, I checked the pack of sausages for the description which mentioned some of the spices and herbs added to the sausages in their packing. Quickly, it was over to the spice rack (something that came with the house and which I have commandeered) to find some complimentary spices. Success! I had them! Still having my Julia Child-meets-Dr. Frankenstein moment, I dashed over to the fridge, pulled out the butter and buttermilk and then, back to the hob to heat a saucepan. Add some stock and flour to my seasoned milky base and within minutes I had improvised my own gravy. Happily, I found out that my off-the-cuff concoction was a triumph! It nicely complimented the sausages, and tasted quite nice on its own when mopped off the plate with little slivers of baguette. Martha Stewart; eat your heart out.

This is the second time now, since habitually making dinners with Sebastian, that I've bluffed my way through inventing a recipe with (if I may say so) quite brilliant results. Though I was the girl in my family who steadfastly avoided the culinary arts for years, apparently I managed to learn through osmosis! Who knew that there was a competent cook lurking beneath this frozen pizza-loving exterior? Suddenly, I don't despair at the prospect of having malnourished little urchins of children who subsist on French toast and chili alone.

The Saga of the Pumpkin...parts one through three

So ever since my friend Nina mentioned going to Starbucks at the end of the week for a pumpkin muffin, I've been grappling with the craving for one myself. Of course, being too cheap to walk down the street to my own local Starbucks to check and see if they have any pumpkin-flavoured confections, I've determined to try and make my own again.

I have to add, in the spirit of confession, that I'm also a bit of a snob about my own pumpkin muffins. I got the recipe from my mom and have been making them for years now - and I'd like to think that they're pretty darn spectacular as pumpkin muffins go! With this determination it was time to set off in quest of the key ingredient: pumpkin puree.

Normally, this wouldn't be a quest. Normally, I would have skipped down to Macey's or Lowe's, snagged a can of the Libby's pumpkin puree, and skipped merrily back to my house or the dorms back on campus, content in my knowledge that with the pumpkin in hand tasty muffins were only 35 minutes away from consumption. Alas, in London, things are not so easy. Last year, living up in Hampstead, the only reason I was able to make pumpkin muffins once was because some kindly and forgetful soul from the last student group had left a can of the stuff sitting in the communal pantry. I pounced. Upon making the discovery, I claimed it for my own, purchased the requisite spices and other ingredients, and dashed back from Morrison's to make a double batch of muffins and share the wealth with the rest of my housemates. However, this year has shown that a bit more persistence is necessary, and I am now in the midst of practically Arthurian efforts, because autumn isn't really complete without some form of pumpkin-flavoured goodies.

Part The First:

My craving for pumpkin still unsatisfied and unabated after two days, I determined to do some internet research a la Google to see if anyone had an idea on where to purchase pumpkin puree here in the UK. Several blogs and Yahoo Answers swore to me in all earnestness that such a commodity was available at Waitrose. Brilliance! If I had a shiny white steed I would have spurred him onwards towards the grocery store. As it was, I donned my Wellies and spurred myself down the street and through the winding aisles of my local Waitrose in gleeful - if premature - anticipation of the autumnal treats to come. Tragically, the canned fruit section (which took up less space than my bunk bed) was both dismally small and pumpkin-less. That didn't stop me from scanning the shelves once, twice, and thrice over in the hope that I'd simply missed my quarry, but to no avail. I returned home defeated.

Part The Second:

My first attempt thwarted, it was time to express my frustration in the hope that it would bring sympathy, or even further illumination for the next stage of my journey. Yes, that meant a Facebook status post. What else could I do? I was out of obvious options at this point - clearly I needed a push in the right direction from someone wiser and more experienced in a hunt of this nature. And who should come to my rescue but Somelea! She told me that there was a Canadian food store in Covent Garden which was where she had purchased some pumpkin puree last year for a similar endeavour. I quickly Googled the store and discovered its location. The map now saved in my iPod, I resolved to set off on the morrow in the direction of Covent Garden and - hopefully - some North American speciality foods.

Part The Third:

Today I set off for Covent Garden. I decided to go on foot since I had nothing better to do for the next 2.5 hours, so I might as well get in a little exercise and walk. My directions were flawless and I got to the Canadian/Australian food store without a hitch. I found Aunt Jemima maple syrup (!) and even found the spot on the shelves where the blessed Holy Grail of dessert ingredients was said to reside. Nothing! I bought a Skol bar to console myself and took that and my maple syrup (or should I more accurately say my "maple-flavoured pancake syrup) to the till. I asked the girl at the counter if she knew when they'd be getting more tinned pumpkin and she told me that it was on order and due to arrive next week. Dampened, but not defeated, I walked back home for lunch and some long-overdue hair-straightening (and a surprise viewing of Hercules with Cheryl). Part The Fourth will continue next week when I return full of expectation to snag myself some pumpkin. I'll be ready this time.

Just Singing and Running in the Rain

I decided that in spite of the very English weather, I was long overdue for a run today. Strange and mysterious illness had kept me abed in Wimbledon since Sunday evening, so when I got home this morning, my resolve was set. Not to mention that a Saturday morning run was entirely out of the question after staying up until 2am the night before driving back from Reading and getting to bed. It was a good night though - Sebastian and I went out for Keith and Carsten's birthday party, which included some nice autumnal outdoor time around a bonfire, requisite accompanying marshmallow roasting (said marshmallows becoming makeshift s'mores when Rachel and I fondue-dipped the Cadbury's chocolate fingers), and a cosy viewing of Corpse Bride. The spread definitely had a large component of sugary treats, such that my dinner that night - I'm ashamed to admit - consisted of those faux-s'mores with Rachel, a few Thai ginger crisps, a glass of Sprite, and several handfulls of Haribo gummies. I'm also mildly ashamed to admit that I have such a fondness for the little Coke bottle Haribo that not only did I cherry pick them from the bowl myself when possible, I discovered that Sebastian had made a little cache of them for me in his jacket pocket. Now that's love!

But back to today:

When I got up this morning it was dark...after sleeping through most of Monday, waking up around 6am wasn't difficult in the least. By the time I was out of the house at about half-seven, the drizzly rain had already begun in earnest. So up went the hood and - lamenting the fact that my wellies were back at the flat - I set off for the Tube.

After some lazy time in the morning, which included napping to The Count of Monte Cristo, I decided it was time to be productive. The first stop was Waitrose in hopes that the internet had not led me astray in supposing that they carried my coveted Libby's canned pumpkin. Alas, when I anxiously approached the canned fruit aisle, not only was the selection pitifully small, there was no pumpkin as I had been led to believe. Either I'll be bribing my sister to send some from the States, or else it'll be pumpkin pie and pumpkin muffins this Thanksgiving and Christmas done Mormon Pioneer style: from the sweat of my brow...and lots of hand-mashed pumpkin.

After my disappointing grocery store sojourn, it was time for the aforementioned run, and so, I suited up and went out into the humid grey of the afternoon. I decided it was time for something of a change of pace, so it was off to Hyde Park and the Albert Memorial for an hour of the afternoon. The weather held fairly until the return journey, when it drizzled, then rained, then poured. Honestly, by the time it was well on the way to really tipping it down, I was enjoying myself more than at any point in the run. There's something so energising about running in the pouring rain. It feels a bit like being a little kid again, and so - if you can hold that mindset - you are imbued with little kid-like energy to finish off a good 5-mile circuit with a smile on your face, in spite of the sopping wetness and the panting lungfulls of air you must gulp in so as not to collapse from oxygen deprivation and the stitch in your side. It's a beautiful feeling.

It's a lazy night in tonight after having called home. Since I'm the only person I have to feed tonight, I've become terminally lazy. My only concession to the culinary arts will be to chop up some fresh pineapple to go on my frozen pepperoni pizza. I figure that if I made biscuits and chilli for Conference weekend, I'm more than entitled to a bit of laziness when on my own. This is what happens when Sebastian leaves town for work. I foresee the start of a long-term trend here.

Getting in the Swing of It

Today has finally felt like what can be termed my "usual" run through Regent's Park and the surrounding areas. I suppose it couldn't be a real run at all until I caved and got myself trainers. So precarious was my determination to get back to running after nearly a 2-month hiatus that I had to commit to two runs in my evil white walking shoes (read: cheap Target slip-ons with padding) just to make sure that I'd keep the trend up once I had trainers.

The trainers purchased, I think I made a good (or at least decent) effort over the course of another three runs before my headphones died. After some brave attempts to melt the plastic covering for the wires into place in such a way that would bring the sound sputtering back to life in my right ear-bud, it gave up the ghost and I sussed out a Maplin to grab some replacements. I like my replacements: they stay in my ears much better than the old ones. This means that there is much less temptation to slow down or even (how sacrilegious!) stop running in order to adjust the sound feed which sustains my momentum. It's an interesting phenomenon - probably I'm just too used to having the headphones in when I exercise at all - but I definitely noticed my will to push onwards diminishing severely on my run Tuesday when the right ear-bud started showing its first signs of illness. It coughed and stuttered in and out, occasionally granting me a blissful four consecutive seconds of stereo sound and so to stop concentrating on how much further I had to go to get to the flat, I focussed instead on just what tracks from my favourite songs were missing now that the right stereo had gone the way of the Dodo.

Today's run involved the push of an extra mile to and from Camden Lock. Google Maps convinced me upon my return that this means I've run approximately 6 miles today, which impresses me more than perhaps it ought to. I'd like to make that route and distance the routine for now and then press on a bit further in the coming weeks. Of course, it remains to be seen what my uni schedule will allow for what with reading and revising, but I have the suspicion that I should be able to carve a suitable 2-hour block from most days to dedicate towards a run, and the subsequent required shower and hair-fixing. I'm trying to keep at bay now the vague idea that to keep up enthusiasm I probably ought to have a goal, like trying to run a half-marathon come May or June. Perish the thought. I think for now I'll content my goal setting with something that feels less ambitious: like trying to keep up with Sebastian for a 5-mile jaunt. Er...on second thought, perhaps my goals need a bit more time to simmer.